


Lift Me Up, for Hate is my Virtue

by IneffableDoll



Series: Love is My Sin, and Thy Dear Virtue Hate [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Character, Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Relationship, Asexuality, Blessings, Churches, Consequences, Developing Relationship, Dorks in Love, God is here now too, Heaven and Hell, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Minor Misunderstandings, Romance, The Ending is Fluffy as Hell, the rating is for language btw, they're still learning how to be less stupid, we just need to have faith that they'll get there eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:07:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22926931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableDoll/pseuds/IneffableDoll
Summary: Just because Crowley and Aziraphale have confessed to each other doesn’t mean they’re not both still insufferable morons.In which characters don’t communicate until they do, and characters have issues until they don’t. Also, churches stopped being holy for some reason and that’s weird and possibly concerning.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Love is My Sin, and Thy Dear Virtue Hate [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1647307
Comments: 31
Kudos: 110
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	1. Aziraphale

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2 to “Cast Me Down, for Love is my Sin.” Not as fluffy, sorry, but I hope you like it nonetheless! (I will be posting the remainder of the chapters later in the day!)

Everything had changed, yet had anything, really?

The days may have taken on a new rhythm, and each morning beheld a new flavor. There was something inherently new about the entire world, yet so familiar, and never had Aziraphale held it in such high esteem than when it was a world in which he could love Crowley.

By some unspoken agreement, the wily demon was at Aziraphale’s bookshop every day after their confession. In many ways, life really was much the same. They spent their days in one another’s company, doing this or that. It didn’t really matter – had it ever? They didn’t talk much about what had happened. Somehow, it was all so tender and raw with the emotions that had been lain bare that, as Aziraphale had discovered that night, words fell rather short.

But that was okay. The pressure of palms said a lot, and Aziraphale pretended not to notice when the sofa was one day significantly less wide than it may have once been, almost as though two people might have to sit very close to each other on it. Darting sidewise glances of a week prior had, on Crowley’s part, became blatant, dilated gazes. 

His sunglasses lived on the counter by the doorway.

Crowley stayed another night but hadn’t since then. Aziraphale had no problem with that; it still felt too special, too intimate and powerful, to make it common (…yet). He wasn’t sure sleeping did the angel any good anyway, for waking up with Crowley wrapped around him like an adorably possessive snake made it very difficult to think of anything else for the remainder of the day.

It had only been a few months past Armegge-Not when they’d finally told one another their feelings, but now time seemed to slow, each day was long enough to savor, and yet there never seemed to be enough daylight for Aziraphale to bask in Crowley, in his love and affections, and to reciprocate them without fear. His greatest comfort was knowing that he had all the time in the world to enjoy it.

He thought everything was perfect, exactly as it should be.

‘Til it maybe wasn’t.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley called from the bookshop door. It was early morning, Day 8 (though who was counting?), and the brief blast of winter air drifted until it adjusted to the comfortable heat of the bookshop. 

Aziraphale was perched on a stool, hidden by a shelf, surrounded by books he was supposed to be organizing. He was halfway through a text he’d meant to peek at a page or two of and had no idea how sore he was from sitting there (it’d been nearly fourteen hours, as he’d failed to notice) until he heard his name and flinched a little. It’d been so long since Crowley hadn’t called him “angel” that he thought for a millisecond it was Gabriel.

“Crowley, dear!” Aziraphale replied, feeling the smile creeping up his lips already. “I’m back here, give me a moment.” He expected Crowley would come back to meet him anyway, but by the time Aziraphale had managed his way past the snowdrifts of parchment, Crowley still stood by the door, hands in his pockets. Aziraphale felt his heart sink inexplicably to see he was actually putting his sunglasses on, as though he’d started to remove them and changed his mind.

“Can’t stay,” Crowley said to Aziraphale’s unasked question. “I’m just dropping by for a second.”

“Oh, are you going somewhere?” Aziraphale asked.

“Uhh…yeah. I’ll be gone for a…” He seemed to be conjuring a number on the spot. “Two days? Don’t worry, everything is perfectly fine. And I’ll call you. So, don’t worry.”

Aziraphale tried not to show his disappointment at the prospect. They’d managed centuries without, of course, but that was before...this. They’d only had it for one week, as it was – even one single day was an eternity. “Alright, dear. But what brought this on?” An idea struck him. “Is Hell bothering you?”

Crowley shook his head quickly. “No, nothing like that. I’ll tell you everything when I get back, okay?” He leaned forward to give Aziraphale the lightest of kisses and, already flushing, turned without a word to shut the door behind him, leaving Aziraphale to stand in the hovering swirl of chilly air with a hollow gash in his chest and a tingling sensation on his mouth.

Something felt wrong. He was overreacting, of course, but Crowley was definitely not…right. Aziraphale was missing a crucial detail. Did something happen yesterday? It had all been perfectly normal – according to this new normal, that is. They’d shared a bottle, swapped stories, laughed a lot. Crowley had kissed him goodnight, and seemed deliciously happy, and gone home to water his plants…

“Ah! Wait!” Aziraphale rushed to open the door, hoping to catch Crowley before he was gone, to ask if Crowley needed Aziraphale to take care of his plants while he was away. But all he saw was a rush of black as the Bentley flashed by at a speed definitely much too high for London. At least that felt right.

Aziraphale fidgeted on the doorstep for a moment, then went back inside. He sat down and picked up his book without really looking at it, then put it down again.

He shouldn’t be worried. Of course, he shouldn’t. He trusted Crowley, with anything and everything. His life, his soul. It was exactly because he trusted Crowley so dearly that he knew something was amiss. He simply had no idea what it was.

As he let the hours tick by, leaving the shop sign turned to “Closed,” he made a show of moving books about, shifting between piles and putting them in stacks without seeing them. He dwelled carefully over the past seven days of utter, wonderful bliss. Every conversation, everything he’d said to Crowley and every word to come from his demon’s beautiful mouth. And his face was a high warm tone, remembering, too, what mouths had done without words.  
By the time he was done, the sun had set (one day down!) and his only twisted up conclusion was that he’d done something to upset Crowley and had no idea what it was.

(Aziraphale was unaware of the aggravated, half-amused facepalm God did when Aziraphale came to this conclusion.)

Though he wasn’t one for sleep, he crept into the bed he’d manifested for him and Crowley to share. He’d never actually been in it alone before, and only twice in general. He had no idea how it would ache to see Crowley’s side empty and cold until it was, and it did. He lasted exactly forty-two seconds before changing his mind and returning to the bookshop.

He looked around. It wasn’t any different than it ever had been. Warm lighting, the faint scent of weary pages and lavender candles (unlit; Crowley wouldn’t let him do anything with fire in the bookshop anymore). Books upon books, all his life’s collection in this blessed spot he called home. Heaven on earth, as the humans adeptly called it.

Aziraphale swore he could still feel the slight shiver of air from when Crowley had opened the door that morning, persistently enveloping his skin. The bookshop felt so wrong.

This was, again, an overreaction; he was being absurdly silly, clingy even, to worry so much. It was just a couple days. Crowley had every right to do whatever he wanted. There may have been nothing behind any of it, perhaps he just wanted to get away for awhile, visit someplace, have an adventure. And Crowley should; they were free. They could do anything at all.

“Oh,” Aziraphale uttered aloud. It wasn’t that he was upset about Crowley leaving. It was really more about Crowley being gone that ached. Perhaps there wasn’t a difference to anyone else, but there was to him.


	2. Crowley

It took everything in Crowley’s bloody being to close the door behind him and force his body to the Bentley. He was hardly aware of starting the car, aware of moving, until the Bentley decided “Somebody to Love” was somehow appropriate and Crowley couldn’t stop the positively demonic grimace from spreading across his face.

Aziraphale trusted him enough to do this, right? Disappear so suddenly, without any explanation at all?

Maybe he should’ve called to have this conversation, so he wouldn’t have had to see Aziraphale’s disappointed expression (selfish demon thoughts), but he hadn’t even really decided he was saying anything until he stood on the doorstep and knew he couldn’t pretend everything was fine when it wasn’t – at least, not for a whole day. It was hard enough to lie to him like that as it was.

He roared down the street, gnawing his cheek absentmindedly. It wasn’t like he wanted to do this, exactly. It wasn’t even really his choice; the situation was out of his hands.

He knew, too, that it wasn’t, but he held the lie and handled it gently.

It had happened sometime after midnight, precisely 2:37 AM to be entirely too pedantic. It wasn’t much of anything, and maybe it really wasn’t. That’s why he was doing this, after all. The fact was that the spot where he’d melted Ligur with holy water had become consecrated in the precise fraction of a second that the holy water touched it. Even after Crowley had (very carefully) cleaned up the, er, corporation goo, the spot still set his feet aflame if he dared to step on it. Aziraphale hadn’t seen the spot – they spent the night after Armmegge-Not in the front room on a sofa that hadn’t been there before, without much bother for wine glasses when bottles seemed just fine. Crowley had learned to avoid the consecrated ground whenever he needed to get into his office and it really didn’t bother him too much.

But he’d forgotten. And, having been in the flat only long enough to berate his garden for the past week or crash into his bed, he walked into his office to check something without even thinking. The fact that he didn’t notice this for another seven minutes said everything.

He looked up, horrified, and stared at the spot on the floor when he remembered. It didn’t look different, but it hadn’t before, either. It’s just that he knew that’s where it had happened. And maybe it had been a very long time since he was an angel, and maybe a lot of that time was a bit of a blur in his memory, but if he knew anything at all, he knew that the effects of holy water were irreversibly, undeniably, unbelievably, ineffably...permanent. 

And he had felt nothing walking on consecrated ground.

The ground had stopped being Blessed.

At 3:51 AM, he finally worked up the courage and stepped on the spot. There was absolutely no feeling to it. It didn’t make SENSE, though. Consecration was permanent as creation itself – to the whims of God. Instead, it was like any other spot in the flat. Regular ground.

The Bentley came to a gentle stop as “Another One Bites the Dust” concluded the chorus and Crowley parked it beside the small local church. But he remained there, knuckles white on the wheel, for another handful of minutes.

He should tell Aziraphale.

He already knew that much. He should’ve called - no, he should have driven to the bookshop in the middle of the night and told Aziraphale everything. Starting with the fact that he’d killed a demon in his flat, which he’d never gotten around to explaining. He should turn around right now, apologize to Aziraphale for keeping a secret, and just bloody talk to him.

Later.

Crowley pushed the car door open and closed it softly before stalking up to the church entrance. He reasoned that, since the church was still Blessed, he could confirm that this was something to do with his flat and not just Blessed spots in general. A control group, if you will. Maybe because the holy water had been mixed with demon goop, that affected something? He took a deep breath, steadying himself. Soon, he’d feel the searing hot pain on the soles of his feet, and THEN he’d tell Aziraphale everything. No need to worry his angel with this.

He walked into the church quickly, while he had the nerve, and continued walking past all the pews until he stood before the low stage where Sundays met preachers.

And he felt absolutely nothing.

Not entirely true; he felt one thing. He felt, bubbling in his throat, foaming in his ears, tearing and clawing at his flesh, squashing the sense from his organs – numbing fear.

“Fuck,” he whispered, earning him an extremely disapproving glare from someone who seemed to work there and was vacuuming between the benches. He took that as a cue to go and couldn’t get back to the Bentley fast enough. As soon as he had tossed himself in, he about tore off his foot to remove his shoe and sock, staring wide-eyed at his perfectly normal foot with abject horror. He could still remember the positively sinful burns that mangled his feet back in the Blitz. It’d been so utterly worth it, of course, but he hadn’t been able to walk for nearly two months. That had happened.

He’d just stood in the church for at least as long as he did back then. And there wasn’t so much of a bit of excess heat on his toes.

He shoved the offending foot back into his shoe without bothering to replace the sock.

It was less that this was bad. Unless it was. He really couldn’t say. Maybe it shouldn’t have terrified him so much. Yet, Heaven or Hell was doing something, he was certain – but what? What could they possibly hope to accomplish, to gain, and how’d they made it happen? It shouldn’t even be able to occur. The bloody annoying thing about Blessings was that, unlike curses, they couldn’t be lifted even if an angel tried to do so. No wonder they were so strictly regulated.

But what really scared him was something else. What made this discovery so utterly terrifying was that the problem might not be the consecrated ground, but him. Being unable to identify consecrated ground wasn’t a difference between angels and demons.

It was the difference between supernatural beings and humans.

He banged his head hard on the steering wheel, much harder than he’d meant to, and let a small gasp of pain out. Yes, that’s what his feet should be doing right now.

He thought of Aziraphale as he pulled into reverse to find another church. He found seven, and he returned to his flat with healthy feet.


	3. Aziraphale

By the next morning, Aziraphale’s sanity was playing tightrope with itself as it twisted into every single one of the most horrible scenarios he could imagine. The bookshop had suddenly become prison to Aziraphale’s worst worries as he brooded in his chair, tea cold. He’d never been one to think like this before, even the worrier that he was prone to be; however, as it turned out, being the lover of the creature to birth imagination had side effects. 

He was in desperate need of a change of scenery.

He walked the streets for hours with no idea of where he was going. He was simply going. It was when he spotted one of his favorite cafes that he realized he hadn’t even thought about eating food since dinner with Crowley the other night. His corporation couldn’t get hungry, precisely, but something akin to it washed over him and he ordered himself tea and a slice of devil’s food cake. As he ate, he couldn’t help but smirk in imagining the look on Crowley’s face as he teased him, eating something with such a name so shamelessly. He felt rather better and his mind seemed to settle slightly.

He finished, tipped generously, and fled to the outdoors, determined to make the best of the day. He had plenty of things he could do, places to go, people to see, prospects to enjoy. No need to sit at home fretting. It was a rare, crystal-clear day of blue skies, white clouds, and that crisp winter cold that called for tartan scarves and woolen mittens. At least, for this particular Edwardian dandy. He walked quickly, gloved hands deep in his pockets, thinking about nothing but trying not to think.

He looked up suddenly when he saw he was outside a church. Hardly a rare thing (It’s London, guys), but for some reason, he felt drawn to it, and practically without permission his feet turned and carried him inside. He hesitated briefly at the entrance before walking up to the front of the modest auditorium and gazing at the windows overhead the pew.

“Y’ know,” a voice said, “someone walked in just like tha’ yesterday and swore.”

Aziraphale turned to see a human carrying a couple boxes and looking at him curiously. Aziraphale almost laughed. Sounded like something Crowley would do, swear in a church. “Did they really?”

They nodded enthusiastically. “Not to be judgy, but he did rather look like someone who would. Tight leather and sunglasses. Wicked snake tat. Your polar opposite, sir.”

Aziraphale felt the color drain from his face. “Oh. Yes. Right. Well, have a good day, then.” He found himself rushing out of the church so fast he didn’t register the expression the stranger made, which seemed to be one of puzzling out why their Sudoku seemed fond of combinations that resulted in confusing, middle-aged men who walked into churches to say offensive or cryptic things.

Aziraphale stood outside the church in a daze.

That was obviously Crowley, then.

But why was he in a church?

Oh Lord, he was in a church!

Aziraphale looked around, desperate for a telephone booth, but he knew Crowley wasn’t much for answering unknown numbers. He was back in the bookshop so fast miracles may have been involved, but he honestly couldn’t recall. Landline receiver slammed against his ear, he dialed and hoped that, wherever Crowley was in the world, he would answer.

He was almost surprised that Crowley did.

“Crowley!”

“Angel?”

“Crowley, are you okay? How are you feeling? Your feet?”

“What are you talking abo- wait, my feet?” Pause. “How do you know?”

Aziraphale huffed at him. “What were you doing in a church, Crowley?! How bad are the burns? I’m coming to wherever you are right now, okay?”

Crowley hesitated so long, Aziraphale thought he’d hung up. “Do that, angel. We need to talk. I’m in the flat,” he directed with an air of resolution.

Aziraphale agreed admonishingly and called a cab, feeling ready to use a dozen miracles to ease Crowley’s pain, then to spend a dozen hours scolding his silly demon for going in a church so carelessly. Hopefully he’d remember to say something about the swearing, too. A small part of him felt a little hurt that Crowley was apparently still in the area and had simply been avoiding him rather than going somewhere – guess he really had just needed time away from Aziraphale.

Mostly, he just needed Crowley to be alright.


	4. Crowley

Aziraphale was entirely unable to shut up as soon as he arrived, arms flailing as he berated Crowley for putting himself in harm’s way so pointlessly. Before Crowley could get a word in, Aziraphale had pushed him to sit on the couch (“Why in the world are you standing on those poor feet? Sit!”) and propped Crowley’s legs up in his lap.

Crowley had no chance to say anything at all before Aziraphale had miracled Crowley’s shoes off, half excusing himself for the frivolous miracle for fear of irritating the burns, when he finally stopped talking and saw what there was to see. Which was, as it so happened, not much.

“I don’t understand,” Aziraphale said. “I was certain that - oh dear, I’m so sorr-”

“Stop,” Crowley interrupted. “Don’t apologize, and just let me explain everything, okay?”

And so, he did. He started at the very beginning (well, not The Beginning, but as Beginning as was strictly necessary). How he’d used the holy water to kill Ligur – Aziraphale was visibly relieved to hear Crowley didn’t have it anymore – and how it left the spot consecrated – Aziraphale nodded at this knowingly – and how he’d discovered it wasn’t the other night. Aziraphale stopped reacting, simply staring, as Crowley breathlessly rushed through the rest of the story and what he’d done yesterday. A collective four hours and seventeen minutes should have burned his feet to nubs.

When he finished, Aziraphale didn’t say anything. The silence was unbearable.

“What do you think it means, angel?” Crowley found himself asking. “I don’t understand how this could even…be a thing. Unless there’s something wrong with m-”

“You should have told me right away,” Aziraphale suddenly burst, looking royalty peeved. “We could have figured it out together, rather than you running off recklessly into a church. Risking yourself on a guess, a whim!” Before Crowley could apologize (for about the eighth time; his explanation had been rather choked with apologies), Aziraphale’s face twisted into something else. “Further,” he whispered, as though the words he was about to speak were in a language he didn’t know, “It’s not you. That church…wasn’t Blessed.” 

“What?”

“I was in the church - or, one of the churches. The one you swore in” - Crowley caught that flicker of amusement in Aziraphale’s eye before it hid again - “and I couldn’t sense anything holy about it. I didn’t even notice until you told me all...this.”

“But…holy ground can’t just become...not.” Crowley winced. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve walked into buildings built over old, destroyed churches and run out with blisters?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes, it’s entirely eternal.” 

“And this can’t be Hell’s doing,” Crowley pointed out, running a hand over his face in frustration. “Or I highly doubt they would’ve stopped at ‘not being holy’ and moved into a distinctly cursed direction. I don’t see Beez settling for neutral ground, however Armageddon went down in the end.”

Aziraphale stood suddenly. “Show me the spot. Where that demon...melted.”

Crowley did, and Aziraphale stepped over it himself. His eyes said the obvious as they simply stared at each other for a moment.

“I don’t...I can’t…” Aziraphale shook his head and a determination came about him. “I’m going to contact Heaven about this. I think this is serious.”

“You can’t!” Crowley immediately interjected. “You really want to just stroll up to those bastards - don’t look at me like that - who tried to murder you with hellfire, and you think you can just say, ‘hey, little bit curious over here about some holy spots!’ Angel, no. They might even be behind this, for all we know. You’ll get hurt, and that’s not happening ever again.” Aziraphale was looking at him in a soft sort of way that made Crowley extremely uncomfortable and he tore his eyes away. “Look, let’s just...see what we can do on our own, first. I don’t think it’s such a big deal that we need to go romping to Heaven - or Hell - about it.”

Much to his relief, Aziraphale nodded in agreement. “I suppose...it’s not exactly a bad thing. For it to not...hurt you. I always felt rather terribly about it, back in the ‘40s.”

Crowley made to reply with some sort of reassurance that it really wasn’t so bad, but the angel was already rolling his eyes as though he could hear his thoughts and Crowley kept his mouth shut.

The two spent the evening at the flat, trying to come up with any semblance of a logical explanation behind why the ground was no longer Blessed. They talked well into the night and the next morning, and at noon the next day they took the Bentley out to all the churches Crowley had been to the day before so Aziraphale could check them. They found a few gardens that Aziraphale knew to be Blessed, and a few square feet of James’ Park that Crowley recalled burning him a century past. Every single one was entirely normal in that it wasn’t at all. By the time the sun was sinking again, they had come to three conclusions: 

1\. The ground was still holy two weeks ago, because Crowley accidentally burned his toe on the spot in his flat then.  
2\. Sometime between then and now, that spot and every other had seemingly stopped being holy.  
3\. There wasn’t a single explanation as to why.

The last one wasn’t entirely true, but Crowley didn’t know that yet.


	5. Aziraphale

They parted on slightly frustrated terms. Crowley was clearly deeply bothered by this and made no show of hiding it, but Aziraphale didn’t know what he could say to comfort him. He hardly knew what to think of it, himself.

Aziraphale didn’t hesitate when he returned to his bookshop to gather those unlit lavender candles.

The movements were all too hauntingly familiar in a way he’d really not expected to have to do again, let alone so soon. Close the blinds tightly, pull back the round rug, strike a match on eight girding candles, and step back to survey his work.

He hadn’t lied, exactly. It’s true that he was not contacting Heaven. God has a way of being in every realm, after all, and to say She lived in the realm of angels would be presumptuous. She didn’t live anywhere because She Was Everywhere.

It had only been a few months, and still, he stuttered over the words as he pressed his palms together. “T-This is the Principality Aziraphale, come to speak to…” – he remembered how he’d been directed to Metatron before and decided to be more specific – “God, The Almighty.”

And he waited.

He waited.

And he waited such a dreadfully long time, eyes clenched closed, that his fingers went numb from being pressed together. He tried repeating his lines, asking for just a moment of Her lovely time if She would, and after two hours he’d resigned himself to even being fine with just the Voice of God. Anything at all to recognize that an angel was seeking Her guidance, and She responded in the way She often does: silence.

Aziraphale was determined to wait it out all night if that’s what it took, but his phone rang behind him on his desk and he jolted. Opening his eyes blearily, he noticed that two candles had gone out and one was dripping hot wax on the floor. He made a mental note not to tell Crowley. With a grumble and a snap, the candles were put away, the mess cleared, and the rug returned. With his other hand, he picked up the receiver.

“Crowley?”

_Not Quite._

Aziraphale’s mouth went dry as holy light surged through him. “M-M…Mo…”

_You Choose The Humans In Many Ways. Try Again, Son._

The light was gone as soon as it came, a rush of chilly wind that left one’s hair tangled and lips breathless. He held the receiver to his ear for twenty minutes, listening to the dial tone.

A word escaped his mouth that would’ve made Crowley proud.

As it so happens, many people don’t believe in coincidences. They believe all that happens, happens for A Reason, and that there is purpose behind anything seeming to be rooted in chance. However, there was nothing in the way of fate intervening when Aziraphale stood there, at precisely 2:37 AM, dialing Crowley’s number with trembling hands.

He picked up. “A-“

“I just spoke to God.”

Silence. “Fuck.”

“My sentiments exactly, I’m afraid.” He relayed the brief message and they contemplated what it meant.

“Is everything She says so cryptic?” Crowley growled. There was a bang in the background. “Like, if She wants Uriel to bring Her a pie, does She say, ‘shaped berries trapped in beige, a flattened orb cut thrice’?” His voice dripped with mock and sarcasm.

“I hardly think God eats pies,” Aziraphale replied, failing to resist the smile that broke across his face. “And don’t speak so, or I may very well need you to take me to that bakery down the street.”

“Listen,” Crowley resumed, seemingly too distracted to catch Aziraphale’s invitation. “I did try to contact Hell. After you left. Sorry I didn’t tell you. I didn’t intend to actually talk to any of them, I just wanted to see if I still could after all that’s happened.”

Aziraphale felt his own stab of guilt. “And?”

“Nothing. I think I’m being utterly ignored.” He groaned dramatically. “That would’ve been absolutely wonderful in any other situation!”

The angel was secretly glad. Remembering the bath in holy water – however much he may have enjoyed their expressions – he didn’t want Crowley to ever face their abuses again. Better this, with no answers or even responses, than, well, anything Hell wanted to do.

“I…while we’re being honest,” Aziraphale said slowly, “I…also tried. To contact God, that is. Not Heaven, dear, no. It didn’t end up working either, but I should have told you.”

Crowley didn’t sound upset. Almost amused, really, as though it was all some elaborate joke. “I think we need to work on this whole ‘communication’ business. I hear it’s the key to every good relationship, and I want this to work.” Without letting Aziraphale say something (the words on his tongue being “You’re so sweet, dear!” – it was for the best he never got them out), Crowley continued. “Wait, but you did end up talking to God. So…didn’t it actually work then?”

Aziraphale shook his head, despite Crowley not being able to see him. “The phone rang and interrupted, and when I answered, I thought it was you. But it was Her.”

“’You choose the humans in many ways,’” Crowley quoted. “’Try again.’ Try again to…what? Try again to choose the humans?”

“But in what regard?”

“Could She…”

“Yes?”

“Ngk.” Crowley didn’t elaborate on that and Aziraphale heard the sound of a car door shutting.

“Oh, Crowley, you don’t need to drive over here. We can discuss in the morning-” He was cut off when the locked bookshop door opened, and the line went dead. Crowley was already there.

“Got in the car when you called.” Crowley sauntered over. Before Aziraphale could register this, the demon was grasping the angel’s hands with a half determined, half disgusted look on his face.

“Angel,” he said. “Let’s pray.”


	6. Crowley

The words tasted revolting, but he said them.

“P-Pray?” Aziraphale repeated. Realization dawned on his face as his eyes widened. “Oh. I get it.”

“’Try again,’” Crowley said excitedly. “As in, try to contact her again. But we have to do it the way a human would, using human means!”

Aziraphale smiled at him in a way that sent daggers through Crowley’s chest. “Because we’ve chosen the humans, she wants us to choose them for this, too.”

Crowley had never prayed before, not exactly. “Praying” brings forth images of respect and piety, of graciousness and a face angled hopefully upward. Crowley’s version of praying made him look like an utter saint for the way he spoke to his plants. He may have prayed before he Fell, but he couldn’t remember much of that. Were angels praying when they spoke to God in the time before? Or was that just talking? He didn’t know, but he did know one thing: humans. He knew how humans prayed. There were dozens, hundreds, perhaps thousands of ways of praying for the humans. Some fasted atop mountains for weeks; some went on dangerous pilgrimages; some meditated in temples; some sacrificed local wildlife; some wrote their prayers in journals; some knelt by their bedside.

His personal favorite, if he could choose (which he could), was holding hands.

Aziraphale seemed to sense Crowley’s thoughts, because he finally put down the beeping receiver and took Crowley’s hand in his own, clasped fingers forming a circle. A small circle, to be certain, and the perfect size.

The angel closed his eyes, looking ever peaceful, and Crowley painfully closed his, a distracted part of his brain rebelling against anything that stopped him from looking at Aziraphale.

They spoke at the same time.

“God?”

She didn’t answer, but that had never stopped Crowley before.

“God, tell us. I’m not asking. You know I don’t ask. So just tell us why, exactly, You’ve removed Your bloody Blessings from the humans?” He tightened his grip. “Is it some sort of retribution, punishment? I know how You like those.”

“Crowley.” The admonishment was quiet, with hardly any fire behind it. “God, we simply hope to know what You mean by doing this, if You see fit to tell us.”

“You’d better,” Crowley couldn’t help but tack on. He was struggling to keep his eyes closed so long, so vulnerably, and shifted his weight between his feet in a betrayal of his nerves.

The voice that came was like light itself. There weren’t truly words, only feelings, like the vibe of language without bothering to form letters with tongues. Crowley felt it piercing him, filling him, and by Aziraphale’s gasp, he felt it too.

 _Grey Ones,_ the voice began _. There is Nothing To Tell That You Cannot See Yourself to Lose. Can You Not Understand That To Choose The Humans Is To Not Choose?_

“’To not choose,’” Crowley echoed, rolling his eyes even behind the eyelids. Nothing could stop a demon from being snarky, not even God Herself. “And what the Heaven – or Hell, or wherever – does that mean?”

_Wherever. That Is What You Choose, And So You Break Your Tether._

Crowley could feel the aura start to fade.

“Wait!” Aziraphale interjected, lurching forward slightly. “Just…but why? Why take that away from the humans?”

_I Didn’t._

She was gone.

Crowley slowly blinked open, his dilated pupils blurry as he adjusted to feeling like his feet were on the ground. He wondered for a half-second if he should say “Amen,” and didn’t, but cringed because he knew God had heard the thought anyway. “I hate riddles,” Crowley commented when he caught his breath.

Aziraphale made some expression, but Crowley’s dazed eyes didn’t catch it as the bookshop fuzzily came back into view. “She didn’t. She didn’t, Crowley!” Aziraphale burst like a child who, indeed, had cracked a tricky riddle. “The churches are all still Blessed, my dearest. As Blessed as ever. But we-”

“’Grey Ones,’” Crowley interrupted. “That’s what she called us. Because we’re not part of Heaven or Hell anymore.”

Aziraphale nodded and Crowley smiled as the details of his beautiful angel came in clearly. “We chose the humans, Crowley. And that broke-”

“Our ties to-”

“Heaven-”

“And Hell.”

They let that knowledge settle over them.

It was a lot to take in.

They’d, of course, known that they did not belong in Heaven or Hell now. That was obvious and had been ever since a couple of particular-thwarted death sentences. But Crowley had still known that, even if there was no place for him in Hell anymore – and perhaps there never really was one – he still felt…connected. It was still a place that belonged to him in an awkward way, a bit like an old haunting ground you hung around as a child, but even as an adult you still think of as yours.

That had been torn from him. It was a wonderful feeling. Elation, joy, relief. The idea that Hell had no more control over him, that he was truly liberated in a way that shouldn’t have been possible for any living creature…he scarcely thought to try and put to language how freeing it was. Gazing into his angel’s eyes, he saw that the thing he was most grateful for was that the bastard archangels of Heaven couldn’t do anything to Aziraphale, ever again. Crowley had been prepared, forever and always, to fight and destroy anyone who came for Aziraphale. He would not regret it for an instant, not a fraction of a millisecond, if it protected him.

And he would still do it. He would, there could be no doubting that. But it dawned on him, slowly and then suddenly, that the archangels, or any angels or demons or princes or anyone at all…none of them would ever come for them, no matter how long the Earth turned, because they were no longer tethered.

The limitations of Hell did not apply.

A part of his soul twanged, as though the sentiment was bittersweet. A piece of him was too afraid to let go of what he’d built and worked to maintain for millennia. Something he’d so carefully guarded. It was already broken, but now, it was as though those broken pieces had never even existed. Somewhere in his mind, he vaguely realized that the body swap felt like heavy-handed foreshadowing, but for the real world.

Aziraphale was the first to find words, as he so often was. “Crowley, dear…what are we?”

In another context, this could’ve been a different conversation.

“We’re…we’re us, angel,” Crowley whispered softly, leaning his forehead against Aziraphale’s. Even in this context, the answer was the same.

Aziraphale grinned. “Do you remember what you told the Antichrist, back in Tadfield? You told him that he was neither entirely evil nor entirely good. ‘Human incarnate,’ I believe is how you put it.”

Crowley understood. “I don’t think that’s what we are.”

“I don’t either.” Aziraphale shook his head slightly, not enough to break their contact.

“She called us ‘Grey Ones.’ If we want to put a label on it.” Crowley had never been one for words, but by the angel’s expression, he could tell Aziraphale liked having something to call it.

“Grey Ones. Yes. But…what caused this to happen?” Aziraphale mused. “What brought on the change? You said the spot burned you only two weeks ago, and it’s been months.”

Crowley closed his eyes a moment. What had majorly changed in the past two weeks?

Ah.

He felt himself go extremely scarlet as an idea popped into his head.

This did not go unnoticed, of course. “What is it, dearest?”

The “dearest” sent him spiraling slightly because of course it did. “B-Black and white…have to touch to mix…” he found himself murmuring.

Aziraphale’s face rivaled Crowley’s in hue and he let out a breathy, nervous laugh. “S…Some kiss.”

“You don’t say. ‘S my wiles and all.”

The angel – or, fellow gray one? – pulled him into a hug quite suddenly, and Crowley willingly buried his face in Aziraphale’s neck. Just to breathe.

“Crowley, my love,” Aziraphale said, spiking Crowley’s heartrate, “what happens if we discorporate? We won’t go back there, anymore.”

Crowley didn’t even hesitate to lift his head slightly and answer into Aziraphale’s ear, “I’ll take you to the stars. I always meant to show you them. Up close.” He didn’t know if this was possible, but somehow, he believed it was, and it was. His mind echoed to a certain conversation in a gazebo and knew Aziraphale was thinking about it, too.

“I look forward to it,” Aziraphale whispered, sending chills up Crowley’s spine. “I look forward to every minute with you, no matter where it is.”

Crowley couldn’t contain the smile that broke across his face then. Not even slightly suave, he knew – it was an entirely dorky expression and he was glad to have someone’s shoulder to bury that smile into. Aziraphale rolled his fingers through his Crowley’s hair, and for a moment, they stayed like that.

Crowley had only a moment to feel disappointed when the angel pulled back, but no longer than a heartbeat as lips met lips and the world turned a warm grey.

Never had two colors mixed to create such a gorgeous shade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally only started writing this because I liked the idea of the dual titles tying together (both being in reference to Shakespeare’s Sonnet 142: “Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate.”). It ended up not being quite so fluffy as its predecessor, but fluffy enough to make me grin like an idiot while I wrote the ending.  
> I knew if I was writing a bit of a sequel to my sequel, I wanted to incorporate something with consequences. Not bad or good, just…grey. As I wrote and the ideas came to me, I decided to give it a whirl. I’m still not entirely sure if what I ended up with is exactly coherent or with any amount of flow. I also mostly hate it. But I wrote it, may as well post it, and I hope it held some ineffable appeal.


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